Up the Mountain
I had never been drunk before the first weekend of beginning college. I got hammered off cheap tequila and watched this kid face-plant into my friend’s lap. He was talking crazy, about fireflies and ghosts in the graveyard up the mountain, about a quarter of a mile from the school.
I didn’t go up the mountain that night, but the next weekend–with a group of people that would become my close friends–we climbed the winding stairs, drunk and stumbling in the dark. At the very top, sweaty and exultant, we laid in the parking lot on the rough black asphalt and stared at the stars.
A few weeks later, I took a boy up there. There was construction going on, someone had left a construction tower near the shining statue of the Virgin Mary. It was the twentieth of April, he was stoned and I was drunk. I asked if he would kiss me and he didn’t, just wanted to talk. We’re getting married next year.
Thinking back, I don’t know if there are real ghosts up there. I just know that I can remember these snapshots. These ghosts in my memory.